Gotta Give It Up: Thought Flow

It’s been far too long. I’m not particularly in the mood to write, so I’ll just throw down a stream of consciousness for your reading pleasure.

that article said that you form your character based on the people who surround you. add that up with your fb stat from earlier this week, and the question of “who am i becoming” once again rears its ugly head. i cannot help you. i haven’t the slightest idea what to do. i’m starting off on this life just the same as any 18 year old, but i’ve got federal loans under my name. i don’t know who i am. i don’t know what i’m doing. all i know is i’m unhappy.

circumstances are under my control to change. but timing is everything. it’s irresponsible of me to drop this now. i’m theoretically so close. i know i’m really hella far. i can’t begin to admit to my shortcomings. i can’t begin to really tell the truth about this whole thing. my honesty isn’t a good thing. i can destroy worlds with what i really feel. my opinions will get me in trouble. and i didn’t come to this world to destroy it.

i just know i never want to set foot here again.

i’m supposed to care about these people. i can do that from afar. i must do that from afar, or it’ll be the certain death of me. i made a comment the other day to my pseudo-brother that if i didn’t watch myself, i’d become a terror that was heretofore never seen, and if i didn’t think i meant it then, i sure feel like i mean it now. every time i set foot here, my spirit falls. you know the word crestfallen? that word means more than just “discouraged.” for me it’s my aspirations being pulled to the ground like a hang glider forced to descend by a lack of heading winds. and that lack will kill him. my fallen head will kill me. i’m sure of it.

why haven’t i solved the problem? in theory, i can’t. once again, i’m not trying to break them.

but i must. if breaking them is what it takes to set me free, i must. i can’t lose the race before it’s even gotten started. i can find the gumption in me to press on, but i just gotta move.

this isn’t news.

i need to move.

Untitled

so much depends upon
red drops of blood mixed with
salted, wet tears on the
ground, here, before
me.

at first, it cut like a lancing blow:
the sound of the pronouncement
sailed through the air like a
samurai’s blade:
sharp, sleek, agile,
with a profile so low and so beautiful,
its effects were only noticed long after
the damage was done.
the shock of it struck so deep
i felt the flesh of my cheek split,
the gory mess of my flesh
exposed, open, gaping;
and i immediately knew
only the most skilled hands could
pull me back together,
though i know no skill
that could put this back together.
a little part of me knew
i would never again be whole.

the next day, my tear-stained face was taut,
recalling in me a loss from tomorrow:
like the hope i hoped to have,
the dreams i wished
one day to be mine,
the vague contentment i one day
aspired to gain were damaged,
stolen by raucous thieves,
which wicked men tied me down
to burn everything good around me
right before my eyes.
i knew i could never believe
in the hearts of men again.

when i walked, my feet were heavy
with the weight of burdens.
my shoulders slouched deep on my frame,
like the hardened stares of old women
branded with hate by betrayal,
like the brutish grunts of distrust
proud fathers send their shamelessly gay sons,
like the little boy who called me a bitch
cause the world handed him the shortest end
of the stick.
i walked like atlas, liberated,
free from one set of toil, but always
reminded of what struggles had been,
in a body that would never let me forget
the frightened screams of children
the world could find no pity to give.
i walked burdened by confusion,
my head shrouded in blackness,
my thoughts strikingly clear for having
the Perfect Storm running circles
through my head.

though this sweet shot of quicksilver
has made me the perfect machine,
ruthless and unrelenting in my swift
pursuit of sweet justice, sound logic,
and fair reason,
every day when morning broke,
and the first thought i thought
bore twinges of klymactic nostalgia…
when i woke up compelled to cry
at the thought of you,
even after you’d stripped me down,
bore me naked to a barrage of
searing hate?

i would be a fool to think
i should live without this.

Wishing

I wish my dad would sit me down

and spell out the wonders of this world.

I wish he’d regale me with tales of

his homeland and the games he used to play

and thoughts of the people he loves.

I wish we could sit in a field, or just

stand on the lawn and talk about the things

that he wants to see for me:

the first time he openly mistrusts the person I like,

A text message to tell him I’m safe

after a long night on the road,

Late night calls from my new apartment

in a city that never sleeps,

The second walk down a church aisle

that carries that special feeling for him…

I wish my dad would sit me down

and show me the window to his weakness,

to remind me that men are imperfect,

and that sometimes,

people just need a second chance.

If only he’d say it’s not okay to see him cry,

but he likes it that I care enough

to bring him the only tissues he likes

to blow his nose in.

He’d tell me I look beautiful,

or chase after me to change my attire,

because he knows his very best friends are dogs

and no one should ever size up his daughter

like… that.

I wish my dad would spell out the

wonders of this world

and paint a picture so beautiful

that pain, and fear, and hurt would just

pass away.

I wish my dad could read this and see

that there will never be another man like him.

I wish my dad could never pass away.

Conventions

Today it feels like we’re fighting a war,

and instead of standing by my side,

you’ve all but joined the enemy camp and are

singularly focused on my destruction.

Instead of pressing forward against

our mutual foe, you flee to a safe distance

away from the din of battle,

far from the piercing cries,

the haunting screams

and guaranteed misery that the

gore of war is wont to give.

My heart bleeds in twisting pain

like a jagged knife was thrust within

and turned to destroy my fortitude,

to reduce me to a puddle of incoherently

muttering, senseless, canine

surrender.

Like your only job is to make me surrender,

to admit that I’m weak,

to admit that I’m so woefully inadequate.

Understand that you won’t ever hear that from me.

In reality, your true stance in the matter

reminds me of Swiss watches

crafted by the finest smiths of

lasting sturdiness and hardy endurance.

Only time can tell what your true colors are,

but for now, rest assured that

Geneva will burn at my hand.

There are no innocent bystanders here.

Because this? Is plain and simple:

If you’re not with me,

you’re against me.

When RSS fails you.

This blog… this blog. This blog has been here  through thick and thin, ups and downs, trashed posts and copy-pastes from my other innumerable online haunts. This blog has been there for me, even though I want to change the URL so desperately.

I don’t get a lot of traffic here, primarily because I don’t post everyday. But I want this to change.  I linked the RSS feed from here to my Facebook notes, so SOMEBODY would be able to appreciate the hard work I (usually) put into the posts that show up here. Thankfully, that campaign works. A lot of people like the stuff I write. I like the motivation it gives me to keep writing more.

But, unfortunately, my foolproof method of gaining readership is starting to prove rather foolish. The other day, I posted some nifty little tidbits for folks to read and comment and flail all over. Unfortunately, Facebook hasn’t refreshed the RSS feed to know that there are some things I’ve written that I’d like folks to read. That irritates me.

But, I guess that means I need to put more legwork into upping my readership. That means more tweets, link postings on Facebook, and gratuitous self-pimpage anywhere that will let me rave about myself.

Let the work begin.

WD June 2: Love is a Battlefield

A final edit from the writing challenge I gave myself in June. It’s short, simple, and I hope you can draw something from it.

ever since i got over you,

i’ve spent my private hours wondering

if i’ll ever be able to shake

the past and let myself move into

the present.

i have to test whether the marks left

by incapable warriors and failed truces

could ever come under another’s touch

and be erased from my skin.

i often entertain the thought

that maybe you were the last one

who could conquer me in a way

i so desperately needed;

i usually dismiss the idea as a

petty dissuasion, conjured by my still-

wounded heart to deal with the

damage i begged for

before you left.

in hours like this,

in seasons like this,

in moments like this

i wonder if you were the last one

who could melt my heart.

The Sun Also Rises

Today, I went with my church’s Pathfinder club to a park nearby for some practical training on tent-building. After a little light labor in the partial sunshine, I decided to supervise the kids who wanted to play on the jungle gym and other park equipment. After about 15 minutes, a swing freed up, and I decided to give my favorite childhood playground activity another go.

I cued up one of my favorite songs, drowned out my surroundings, and set out to pumping my legs in a determined, steady rhythm. As the music began to swell, my legs started to ache with the burn of a good workout. My efforts propelled me higher and higher above the ground, the sky began to clear, and the sun shone hard at my back.

Across the plain of baseball diamonds and soccer fields were a few unassuming homes that looked like the stuff of movies. In that moment, the cheerful brightness of the sunlight, along with the din of children at play, painted a picture of happiness that I never thought I’d see with my own two eyes.

As I flew higher and higher still, I found my eyes opened wider. I found my facial muscles taut in what were the smallest tendrils of a smile. I felt a hope and joy that I’ve missed for far too long. And then I remembered the words of the song.

They say that nothing lasts forever, and even true love turns to pain

Don’t put your heart in mortal danger: they all desert you in the end…

And the thought came to my mind that maybe the world as I saw it wasn’t always this way.

Maybe somewhere on this earth, a little boy met another on a baseball diamond after school, and those first few pickup games became the foundation for a lifetime relationship that was never betrayed, which stood firm through breakups, marriages, and the raising of kids.

Maybe a man loved his wife just as much as she adored him, and they both did the best they could to see smiles on each other’s faces every morning, ease each other’s burdens, and do their best to ensure that death would never part them.

Maybe once upon a time, a mother treated her daughter not like a possession, but a responsible, intelligent autonomous human being who could move the world if she so pleased, but still appreciated the comforts that her mother’s stories and life lessons always brought.

Maybe there once was a world where happiness was real. Maybe that world still exists. And maybe, just maybe, I can find my way there one day, too.

As the song came to an end, and the noise of my surroundings brought me back down to earth, I scraped the mulch with my toes to slow myself down. I jumped off the swing upon realizing that someone else wanted a turn, too. I gave my seat to one of the younger kids, and while I sat on a bench far away, I reflected on what I’d just experienced.

I still felt the fresh burn in my thighs. I still heard a little wheeze in my chest. But above all, I cherished the youthful optimism and sheer euphoria that come with the notion that one day, I could wake up and just be happy.

All that calm and all that hope? Made for an experience I can’t soon forget.